


Tete-a-Tete

by Chicklet_Girl



Category: NCIS
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s06e25 Aliyah, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicklet_Girl/pseuds/Chicklet_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You spot the brown leather couch in the middle of the inner office. "Should I have a seat?" you ask, heading through the doorway. "Or maybe I should lie down, like in all the movies?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tete-a-Tete

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for Session 4, Round 2 of NCIS Last Fic Writer Standing. The prompt was "Character Study, beginning with the phrase 'I am the one who....'" It was voted Mod's Choice for the round.

"I'm the one who killed his partner's boyfriend." You stand next to the reception desk and try to look calm. A bead of sweat rolls down your spine from the unseasonable heat outside.

"I know which of my clients you are, Agent DiNozzo," Dr. Grant says with a smile on his face. On the phone, you had stupidly thought he'd look like Lou Grant, but it turns out he's much taller than he'd sounded. Minus forty pounds, he'd be rangy, with long limbs and angular features. As it is, he looks like a filled-out James Coburn. From _Magnificent Seven_, maybe, with black hair and a hat to match. Not that Grant is wearing a hat, of any color. He's wearing dress slacks, light gray, decent but not designer, and a white button-down shirt. No tie, black wingtips too clunky for the pants.

You're dressed for desk duty in jeans and your blue Zegna shirt. It's hard dressing sharp with a sling. Besides, all you're doing is going through cold cases and updating paperwork. Gibbs and McGee follow up on your new leads, leaving you behind in the bullpen. You struggle through typing reports one-handed and get ready for stuff like this, your required meetings with the therapist so you can get approved for field duty again. Should be easy – between Philly, Baltimore, and NCIS, you've done it almost a dozen times.

You spot the brown leather couch in the middle of the inner office. "Should I have a seat?" you ask, heading through the doorway. "Or maybe I should lie down, like in all the movies?" You lower yourself onto the couch and lay your head on the small pillow. Grant comes in and sits down in the chair opposite the couch and you remember looking up at Rivkin from an angle like this, your left arm screaming in pain and your gun just out of reach. Your breathing speeds up until you use your good arm to grab the back of the couch and wrench yourself into a sitting position. You find yourself sitting up and clutching the edge of the cushion, trying to focus and calm the hell down.

It's strange how the beginnings of a panic attack feel sort of like having the pneumonic plague.

"Are you all right, Tony?" Grant's voice is enough to break through the hamster-on-a-wheel rush of your brain. "There's water on the table next to you."

"Nah, I'm okay." You just fucked up in a major way. Getting re-approved might not be as easy this time.

"Has that been happening a lot? Did it start before or after you returned from…?"

"Can't tell you everything, Doc. It was related to a mission."

"Actually, I have higher clearance than you do." You give him a skeptical look. "No, really. Most of my clients are law enforcement, which in DC means I end up working with people from all of the agencies – including the NSA."

Huh. "How'd you end up with that specialty?" Your breathing is almost back to normal, and you decide to have some water after all. It's bottled, so you have to grasp it between your knees and untwist the cap to get it open.

"I used to be FBI."

"No shit? What happened?" The water is icy cold. Grant must have a fridge somewhere.

"Going back to the motel from a crime scene in Bumblefuck, Oklahoma, my car got T-boned by a drunk driver." He hikes up the right leg of his pants to reveal a prosthetic limb. "My leg was shattered so badly they had to amputate below the knee."

"Holy shit. How'd you end up in psychology?" This is way more interesting than you figured it'd be. And you're not talking, which is good.

With a wry grin, Grant says, "Let's just say I availed myself of many therapeutic services that I found wanting. I saw a niche and filled it."

You can imagine Grant having to deal with a bunch of therapists who had no idea what he was going through. With your previous LOD shoots, it'd been easier to be around Gibbs or even McGee than to talk to the therapists. At least Gibbs and McGee knew what it felt like.

You sit back and drink your water. Grant waits. Your arm gives a little throb of pain, reminding you that it'll be time for another Tylenol soon.

"Have you had any other panic attacks since the shooting?"

"That was the first one." Liar. "I shot Rivkin from a prone position on the floor."

"'Prone position on the floor.' That's straight out of the report. You been practicing?" And here you'd been thinking it was cool that Grant had been an agent. You make your amused, you-got-me smile and look out the window. You've given Grant an opening, and he takes it. "This one's tough. You shoot someone in the line of duty and now you're down a partner and your arm's fractured and you can't even work."

You tip your head in a half-assed salute, because he's hit a soft spot. And, if you're being honest, your life right now is about as fractured as your arm. McGee is quiet, Gibbs barely talks. Hell, _Abby_ barely talks, which is the worst. You can't work a case for real, no one gets pissed off at your jokes, Gibbs hasn't delivered a headslap to anyone since before Israel. And there's a giant goddamned hole in the team that's shaped like Ziva.

You close your eyes. Screw this. You're done dodging. You let out a sigh, take a deep breath. You should start with Ari. You open your eyes and begin.


End file.
